


Of Greeks And Gifts

by Chris_Quinton



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:19:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23699902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chris_Quinton/pseuds/Chris_Quinton
Summary: Kronos, in search of that perfect gift… [set during Comes A Horseman - Season 5]
Kudos: 16





	Of Greeks And Gifts

Waiting is difficult. Watching for him, knowing he'll be here soon, builds anticipation to an almost painful level. It knots my muscles, sets my nerves on edge, but I can't afford to be rash. Not here and now, with so much at stake. After all, I can be patient, when I have to. Sometimes it's better to unravel the Gordian Knot, rather than hack at it.

It's been a long time, too long, and I'm hungry to see him again: the tilt of his head, the slight, quizzical smile and narrowed eyes when he's considering, planning. It takes a special kind of mind to weave the strategic lateral thinking he's so good at. I haven't met anyone who even comes close. Nor is it only his devious, convoluted brain that's so endlessly fascinating, it's also the sarcastic whiplash humour, the wryly observant commentaries, and, not least, the dark fire he brought to those nights he'd come to me, needing me as much as I needed him. Gods, I have missed him so much.

And the ironic thing is, I didn't know how necessary he was to me until he'd left.

I'm a proud man, and it isn't easy for me to admit that I _need_ something, let alone someone. But after he'd gone, I learned the hard way just how vital a part of my life he'd become. He'd inspired me, lifted me. Without him, I couldn’t have accomplished so much. Now we could go on, together, and there would be new heights to reach. He inspires me like no other, with him at my side, there is nothing I can't achieve.

For the first time in I don't know how long the future is there before me, a glittering prize made possible by his presence. His gift to me.

My gift to him is tucked away inside my jacket.

Choosing hadn’t been easy. Finally, after much searching, I'd found what at first had seemed the ideal present for him. In an antique shop on the edge of the fashionable quarter of Florence, I'd found a dagger. It was a beautiful Italian poniard that had once been owned by Cesare Borgia, according to the provenances spread out in front of me, and that had seemed fitting. But then it had suddenly occurred to me that a new-made blade would be a more suitable offering. The image had a certain rightness to it, a weapon untouched by death and blood, oh, yes, far more appropriate, and only the best would be good enough.

For some years now, it's intrigued me that there are people who have such a yearning for the past, they recreate aspects of it in their lives. There are reenactment societies for almost every period of history, and vast amount of time and effort--and money--have been poured into their passion. Which is very useful, because it means there are excellent swordsmiths to be found if you know where to look, men and women who'll create a weapon to your own design without any suspicion whatsoever. And to find them, all you need is a computer and a search-engine.

I'd found my craftsman in a Florence backstreet, a twenty minute walk from the antique shop, and within a week, he had it ready for me.

The finished article is beautifully crafted: pure, classic lines, an ivory hilt carved into a softly rounded twist that fits snug into the hand. The blade is seven inches of steel, not polished to the white chrome look that takes away any distinguishing feature, but showing the watered silk ripple of its folding and forging. It is, in its way, a modern masterpiece. And it's sharp. Last night I gave it the scimitar test; dropped some threads of silk across the blade and watched them split.

Perfect. And perfect for him.

The door opens, and he's there. He looks--unchanged, and that old joy is rekindled, a leaping, soaring thing that’s almost an entity in its own right. I watch him walk towards his car, towards me, though he hasn't sensed me yet. Then he is within the circle of my quickening. His Presence surges around me and he tenses as mine engulfs him.

"MacLeod?" he says.

That name sends fury surging through me, but I lock it down. Now it's time for the gifting. I know he'll appreciate it, once he gets over his surprise. I step out of the shadows, smiling, and his shock is all I'd hoped it would be.

"Greetings, Brother," I say as the virgin blade sinks home.


End file.
